Child of war
The children of Ares were always the first on the front lines, the pioneers of death. Clarisse, send your guys in first. Clarisse put your siblings directly in front of the enemy. Children of the War God, she thought, always the first to die.
And where, she bristled as she ran her fingers over the tip of her spear, where was the respect? It was obvious from the way everyone sided with Michael Yew, the Ares cabin were always the ones who sacrificed the most, yet they were the ones whose needs were put last. Good luck, fuckers, fighting without the power of Ares beside you.
Outside the cabin she could hear Sherman tossing a basketball repeatedly against the wooden walls. They should be out there fighting, she knew that. Gods knew, she wanted to be out there giving the bastards hell. But the other cabins had gone one too far when they denied Ares the chariot; it wasn't about the damn chariot. It was about honour, it was about finally demanding to be given the respect they. Fucking. Deserved.
A slit of honey-golden sunlight fell across the slats of the floor and onto Clarisse's lap, it was Chris coming in.
"You should knock first." She said, refusing to look at him.
"Clarisse," He said, coming to sit next to her. "We need to go help them, man. They must be up in their heads by now."
"Gods," she snarled. "Too long we fought their battles without anything in return but their snide glances and idiot comments!"
He reached out and grabbed her hand, pleading with her, "Clare, we can deal with that shit later. Right now our friends are dying."
"Chris, why do you even care? What have the Gods ever done for you?" She hated herself, but it had to be said. Everyone thought she was the filial daughter of Ares, but truth was beneath that grudging admiration laid a hard seed of disgust of a father who would beat his child breathless, of a father who was hardly there. So why did she try so hard to earn his respect? Whatever. Chris, though, his godly parent hadn't even bothered to claim him. Ares may have been a bastard, but at least he noticed her. Chris's mum or dad, though, they didn't even care and she was pissed off about that. Chris deserved so much better.
"It's not about the gods." He waved a hand. "It's about our friends."
Clarisse wanted to agree when she thought of the wispy Silena leading her cabin to charge a monster- like that would ever happen though, children of Aphrodite were often relegated to minor duties- or even that fool Percy facing the armies of Kronos. Clarisse so wanted to be there fighting with them. But she thought of the last battle they had, the invasion of Camp Half-Blood, where the children of Apollo had let her sister Fatima die.
"Michael, Fatima needs you, dick!" Clarisse shouted, wisps of hair plastered over her sweaty skull. A ways away, Sherman and her other siblings were gathered around the trembling girl, who had been struck by a poisoned dagger.
"You think I don't know that!" Michael shouted as he patched up another camper- child of Hermes, probably- "But she has to wait, I've got more pressing ones over here!"
"They're all equally beat up!"
Michael turned to glare at her, "You kids of Ares are tough, okay! You can tolerate it a bit longer, if you leave me alone I can be there faster!'
Clarisse wanted so badly to hit him but she rushed back to where her siblings were gathered around the girl. The silence was thick and festering and it screamed.
"She's gone." Sherman growled, casting his eyes to the ground. Clarisse dug her spear into the ground and cursed.
Everyone overestimated the Ares cabin, the children of the war god… They had to be tough, right? So it was okay, give them all your bullshit. They can take it. Serve them last, they can endure. Because they're superhuman, aren't they?
Wrong. Clarisse hastily blinked the hot tears away angrily. Call it pride; call it pure pig headedness, whatever you will.
"They better be able to handle it," she whispered standing up, "The children of Ares aren't coming."